


I See it in Your Eyes (You Want the Cup of Life)

by compo67



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sports, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anonymous Sex, Bottom Jared, Brazil, Español | Spanish, FIFA World Cup 2014, Football | Soccer, Homophobia, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, One Night Stands, Top Jensen Ackles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-06 13:34:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 17,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1859901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty-seven year old Jensen Ackles is a striker for the Chilean national football team. He has spent much of his professional career playing for Chile's leading league--Colo-Colo--and was chosen to represent Chile in the 2014 World Cup in Brasil. Two wins into the Cup, Jensen is hopeful, and unafraid of the team they're set to play next. But what happens when he crashes into a human wall while lounging in the hotel pool? Death trips on a neon-yellow Vespa, a trip to the Museum of Modern Art, and observing a doll covered in spikes are only some of the consequences. [Completed.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> read notes at the end for translation and explanations! :D

Before every game, Jensen listens to “Stacy’s Mom.”

No, not the cheap, half-assed cover by Bowling for Soup—the real fucking deal, the original, the _best_ by Fountains of Wayne. And Jensen knows it might be wrong, but he’s in love with Stacy’s mom. This is how intensely he loves that song; he knows every line, will quote it at any opportunity regardless of relevance, and recalls the music video fondly. He remembers when it used to play on MTV all the time—fuck, he remembers when MTV actually played music—and those were the glory days.

Greatness is always underappreciated.

But results are results. In their match against Ecuador last October, what was he playing on his iPod right before? Stacy, can’t you see, you’re just not the girl for me. Two to one—I’m all grown up now, baby can’t you see?—and that’s all that mattered. They qualified for the Cup with that game.

As he waits with the rest of the team, tinkering around in the locker room, he has Stacy playing full blast in his ear buds. They’ve been in Brazil for three weeks now, having arrived a few days earlier than the kickoff celebrations. Their first game was against Australia, who held out longer than previously predicted. Today they get to serve the Spanish some humble pie.

Spain won the 2010 World Cup, in a match against Holland that Jensen watched, screaming at a television in a Dallas bar. Soccer has always been his thing. When his parents moved them from Texas to Santiago, Chile, Jensen’s entire life clicked. He was no longer the black sheep of his family or amongst his classmates. Instead of wearing the maroon and gold football uniform of his elementary school in Richardson, he was given a white Colo-Colo jersey by his great uncle and told to _andalé_. From the junior Colo-Colo league, he rose in rank and switched positions as soon as he hit a growth spurt at the age of thirteen. Most Chilean men top out at about five foot nine or ten; it was a minor existential crisis to him when he reached six foot one. But under his favorite junior league coach, he shifted from a midfielder to a forward. He’s played every position throughout his career—including goalie—yet striker remains his favorite.

Soccer is more than running through a prime, open field. That’s what most Americans—his extended family included—don’t realize. Again, greatness is always underappreciated. The beautiful game is all about strategy, finesse, calculation, and consistency. The Germans are structured and controlled, but fuck, can they adapt. Brazil is creative, but they get carried away with their own reputations. The Spaniards do a lot with a little; got to watch their footwork. Over their meal three hours ago they argued about the Spanish. Jensen maintains that they’ve become too arrogant, too pitucos. For them to lose against the Americans five to one? How the fuck does that happen? They aren’t whining and crying and flying home midway through the Cup— _fuck_ the French—but losing five to one is like being asleep on the fucking field. No team is without its embarrassing matches, but Spain is the defending champ. ¿Qué les pasó?

Whatever. She’s all I want and I’ve waited for so long.

Today they’re going to show Spain who is la verdadera roja. Madre patria or not—Fountains of Wayne don’t lie. No one wants to bow before a team who loses five to one against the EEUU. No fucking way.

Felipe, the youngest in their squad, announces that it is time—ya es tiempo, webones.

With a deep breath, Jensen neatly puts away his iPod. The rest of the guys finish up their own pre-game superstitions and habits that they have, and everyone gathers in the center of the brightly lit locker room. In between Alexis and Miiko, Jensen joins the huddle. Claudio delivers a motivational speech, threatening each and every man with their testicles being fed to Brazilian tourists if they don’t play their fucking best.

Every man cringes. Every man prays.

Marching out onto the field, in front of 50,000 souls, Jensen hums Stacy’s Mom.

He wishes his testicles the best of luck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Spain to lose against the Netherlands AND Chile this year, what a disappointing show. Defending champs couldn't even make it out of their group and into round two. Oh well, Chile advanced and that's the majority of what I cared about. XD
> 
> I'm messing around with groups here. In reality, Chile would be playing the Netherlands after their win against Spain. I've switched it to be the USA. Just be aware that any tweaking is done on purpose. If you're looking for a 100% accurate World Cup fic, perhaps this is not the fic you're looking for. 
> 
> Churrascarias are what places like Texas de Brazil are. They are delicious. And potatoes do not belong in empanadas--if anyone asks you. XD During the Chile vs Spain match, people were debating who would be la verdadera roja--the true red team. So that's what that phrase means.
> 
> Okay, onward!

Forwards can be any body type. The position is as flexible as the body playing it is.

Other positions, however, are not as open. It’s better for defenders to be on the tall side, so they can win back the ball in mid-air, which is crucial near the goal. Midfielders must be the best runners on the team, capable of supreme endurance. They do most of the running, holding the ball, and passing to strikers. Midfields are also charged with winning the ball back and creating new opportunities to score; the amount of running required is daunting. A striker’s job seems simple at first: score goals. But it’s so much more than that. A forward must be aggressive, capable of analyzing angles and contorting their bodies into any position that will yield a goal. They must take advantage of the setup the midfielders create and their aim has to be accurate and controlled. Few things are as defeating as aiming towards the goal…and then having the ball fly up and over it because the kick was too heavy.

Every position demands the best and every team must be capable of adapting second by second. Injuries happen—Vidal pulled a hamstring not too far back and had to be subbed—and plays change rapidly. Coach Jorge keeps an eye on the teams that they come up against, willing to pull a new play out of thin air in a matter of seconds. A shrewd man, he commands by body language and facial expressions. In the three years Jensen has played for him on various teams, he’s maybe heard three sentences in a row out of the man. But this often works to their advantage. Before thirty minutes passed in the first half, Jorge was able to spot out Spain’s weak spots without giving anything away. And Jensen doesn’t mean to brag, but there were a lot of weak spots.

Chile won, two to zero. It was like Spain didn’t even give a fuck.

At dinner, Jensen crows with the rest of his teammates: la verdadera roja is Chile and it will always _be_ Chile. For a win, Jorge has treated them to the hotel’s swanky bar and buffet, which works more like a churrascaria. Gauchos walk around with spits of meat, carving at the table and onto the plate. From flank steak to blood sausage to chicken wings, it’s all carted out hot and crispy. Jensen enjoys a few rounds but refrains from too much picanha. He makes use of the extensive salad bar and piles his plate with potatoes au gratin and smoked salmon. There are small, Brazilian empanadas towards the end of the buffet that look interesting, but Johnny reports that they’re filled with hearts of palm, which is fucking ridiculous.

“Remember when we played in Argentina two years back?” Jensen mutters, a piece of bacon crammed into his mouth as he hauls over two plates of food.

“Potatoes,” Johnny grumbles, carrying three plates, all precariously balanced in his arms. “Papas don’t belong in empanadas.” Somehow, Jensen and Johnny make it back from the salad bar to the table without spilling one of their plates of precious, celebratory food.

“Easy on the bacon, Jensen.” Damn. The warning comes from Alexis, who hates fun and bacon. He may be twenty-five years old, but his voice has a permanently somber quality to it. Even over dinner celebrating a win, he’s watching everyone carefully. “We play America on Monday. We will continue to train over the weekend. I want to see everyone up and ready by seven.” A snicker from Esteban prompts a snap. “None of this beauty rest shit, you understand? You will show up at seven, or I start counting laps.” Being one of the younger players, Alexis has no problem commanding the respect of the rest of the team. He scored the team’s first goal at the cup last week, and is overall a consistent striker. Alexis can be bossy, and the sky is blue; Jensen will let it slide for the Cup.

Aided by Alexis, Jorge and Claudio bring their table of twenty-seven to momentary silence. Claudio is the actual team captain, and he can be as direct as Alexis, but at thirty-one, he’s learned to let the guys have their fun. Discipline and self-control are embedded in a soccer player’s blood. They aren’t a bunch of middle schoolers playing on dirt fields anymore. Still, they are entitled to their victories.

With an arm over Johnny’s shoulders, Claudio starts speaking. At first, his words are simple and humble. He urges everyone at the table to remember their roots, their country, their families, and the sacrifices they have each made to be here as individuals and as a team. After a minute, making eye contact with every player, his eyes light up and his voice lifts above everything else. Just like on the field, they are juntos—together. He reminds them that Spain’s greatest failure was arrogance, and that he sees nothing of that weakness in any of the men before him tonight. The United States is a historically weak team—nothing like any other South American team or a few European ones—but this year they are playing better. Their players have a better handle on the ball and it is clear that they have been training. Serious and focused, Claudio reminds them of their responsibility—to play the beautiful game with honor, courage, and passion.

A smile breaks out on Claudio’s face, which spurs a domino effect around the table.

“For God, for glory, por el mundial!” Claudio cries out with shout. He bangs his fist on the table, silverware rattling, with a mad look in his eyes that every single person shares. “CHI CHI CHI! LE LE LE!” The entire table roars, banging and stomping, cheering and whooping. “VIVA CHILE!”

Twenty-three players, their coach, and three assistants keep the churrascaria busy until midnight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I won't be translating everything. If something is major, I will, but little things I will leave you to Google. If you have questions, feel free to ask in the comments. <3

It took three weeks for the guys from the national team to stop calling him el gringo. As soon as Jensen made his first goal in a match against Argentina, he became just like everyone else. De vez en cuando—sometimes—Jensen will hear himself referred to as el rubio, but he’ll take that over gringo any day.

The thing is he’s not really that gringo. He has dual-citizenship and has spent more time in Chile than the States. Every other year he swings back up to Texas to visit his grandparents, but every time he does he declines his Poppa’s offer to move stateside. Jensen has survived every earthquake in Chile since he was eight—even the one in 2010—and he’s not about to quit his country just because his grandparents will it. They never understood his parents’ desire to live out here, nor do they understand Jensen’s decision to buy a house in Las Condes. He paid for it in cash and renovated the shit out of it last year before being drafted from Colo-Colo to the national team. Back when he was open to the major leagues for sign ups, Universidad de Chile offered him slightly more money to play for them, but Jensen never forgot the white jersey his Tio Lucho gave him. His loyalty paid off—after he did well in a few choice games, Colo-Colo proved generous.

He has always been a practical person. Buying a home was his first big purchase with his money, and when he wasn’t training last year, he was helping with the renovations. All he has to do now is find the right kind of bookshelves for his room.

Thinking about home is not the best thing to do thousands of miles away from it.

“Let’s go to the pool,” Felipe whines, stretched out on his bed. “Mauricio and Miiko are already there.”

Shucking off his clothes, Jensen doesn’t dare touch his bed until he showers. The comforter might wilt with a whiff of him. Claudio was inspirational last night, but he took a page from Alexis’ book and made everyone haul ass today. It was invigorating, yeah, but it was also fucking exhausting. Being a midfielder, the ten mile run towards the end of training barely fazed Felipe. The same cannot be said for Jensen, who is more accustomed to sprints. Five miles is easy. Ten? Not so much.

“Man, I want a shower, a beer, and a massage—in that fucking order,” Jensen sighs. He all but rips his shirt off and rummages in his suitcase, trying to find a clean one to change into. They’ve been here three weeks and he has avoided doing laundry or getting it done for him, which has come back to bite him in the ass.

Quickly, Felipe counters, “You won’t need a shirt at the pool, webon.” He sits up, perched on the edge of his bed. “C’mon, deja todo eso. Let’s _go_. I’ll buy you a Gatorade.”

“Make it a beer and you got a deal.”

“Hell no, you want my ass to look like Steban’s? Fuck no. You want liquor, you can take it up with Jorge.” Getting up like he hasn’t spent the last five hours training, Felipe does a small dance, inching towards the window. “All of Brazil is out there, rubio! What harm would it be to lay by the pool instead of on your bed?”

During the Cup, Jorge does not allow any of his players to drink. Most of the guys would already have no problem with that rule, especially those who have been to Cups before, but Jensen craves what he can’t have. He wants his own bed, the company of his tabby cat, and an ice cold beer with a twist of lime. But Felipe has a point. Steban broke the rule and paid for it dearly. He has since learned, but mention beer around him and he goes a little pale. With another sigh, Jensen decides that he would rather give in to Felipe than try to find something clean.

He still insists on a shower, so the pool doesn’t turn black when he gets in.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the gods, I hate the ESPN announcers. They don't do the GOOOOOL! and it's not the same.
> 
> Now, La Mirada literally means The Look. Here, it's used as a signal between two men that they are sexually interested. Professional soccer is an incredibly racist, homophobic, classist etc. place. Diego Luna recently did a wonderful criticism about the Cup--it is everything we are and everything we pretend not to be. There are no "out" players at the Cup this year, not even on the US team. It's just not a thing that is done. So we are left to resort to signals. 
> 
> Any questions, let me know!

The Royal Tulip is where the majority of World Cup teams are being housed, compliments of their host country. A few pickier countries—ones Jensen won’t bother to think of—have opted out and selected their own accommodations. Why they would is beyond Jensen. It’s a five star resort with palatial perks, all expenses paid for as long as their team is in the Cup. Chile—La Roja—has made it past the first two games, both wins, so they will advance into Round Two, the elimination round. Their game against the United States isn’t life or death—they will advance even if they win or lose—but no one comes to the Cup with a lackluster spirit for the game. Well, okay, no one that Jensen respects. Winning the match on Monday will put them at the top of their group and determine who they play first in Round Two. No one will be eliminated, but it could still count for something.

Handing over a bottle of suntan lotion, Mauricio offers, “England tried.”

Jensen snorts and takes the bottle, slathering up because he doesn’t feel like breaking out into a freckled mess. “Yeah, okay. They _tried_. They didn’t walk out onto the field, lie down, close their eyes, and hand the ball over to Uruguay.” England also snubbed the Royal Tulip, preferring to stay somewhere else. Perhaps they knew their stay would be short. They won’t be advancing to Round Two.

The three of them are lying down on comfortable, pool-side lounge chairs. Just after one, the Brazilian sun and humidity are out in full force, making everyone sweat. But when they admire the view from their chairs, what is a little sweat anyway? Jensen doesn’t cat call like some of the guys on his team or from others, but he can definitely appreciate beauty. He wonders how many women are here in hopes of catching themselves a rich footballer husband. How many of them are hoping to be the next Victoria Beckham? Of course, Miiko takes it upon himself to show at least one woman from every country present just how different Chilenos are from Brazilians, starting with everything from the waist down. He’s twenty-three; he could use a few slaps to the face.

Non-alcoholic drinks are refreshed for them without even having to ask. Happily, Jensen stretches out. He debates Mauricio about Italy and the Netherlands, sipping a piña colada that comes with its own tiny purple umbrella. Halfway through their debate, Felipe declares a no football conversation rule. “We are here to _relax_ ,” he huffs from his chair. “If I wanted to hear more about football, I’d go park myself over there with Alexis and Gary.”

Ten chairs down, Alexis and Gary look like they are an old married couple, loudly arguing over strategy. Announcers, both English and Spanish, regularly refer to Gary as Pitbull for his aggressive moves on the field. Call him that to his face and he’ll snarl like one too, grumbling that his mother did not name him after a dog or the singer. Jensen is just happy that the announcers call him by his last name; Ackles sounds much better than Yensen.

Setting his drink down, Jensen announces that he has to get in the water before he sweats away into nothing. Since Felipe is going to be an asshole by the poolside, Jensen might as well take a dip. As he stands up, the air presses around and over him. How does anyone deal with the humidity here? Chile’s weather is nothing like Brazil’s. In fact, it’s winter over in Chile. Even during the summer when it gets very hot the air isn’t as thick as stale pan amasado. Mauricio murmurs to Felipe that he will talk about whatever he likes, but Jensen’s idea sounds good, and he’ll join him in a minute. Snapping back, Felipe grumbles a response, but Jensen is too far away at that point to hear it.

There are several aquatic opportunities at the Royal Tulip. It is a beach front hotel, with an impressive stretch of sand. One of the first things Jensen did when they arrived was walk out to the beach and put his feet into the Atlantic. When he was fifteen, he visited Coney Island in New York and stuck his feet into the ocean. Ten years later, there he was, on a beach in Brazil, visiting not as a tourist but as a player in the World Cup on a well-ranked national team. Fifteen year old Jensen would have shit himself.

Despite the pull of the beach, it’s further away than the four extravagant pools that are just steps away from the lounge chairs. Above him is a clear sky, and around him are the scents of lotion, perfume, and blended drinks. There are groups of festive, cheerful people—the spirit of the Cup is everywhere in their hotel. In addition, quite a few of these people are really, really imaginative with their bathing suits, choosing to defy gravity and physics. Jensen eyes a few who he passes as he searches for a quieter section of water. Chile isn’t, admittedly, a superstar team from an international perspective. None of their players have the clout or posterity around them like Messi or Ronaldo. They are not household names all over the world. So, Jensen walks around freely, enjoying his privacy and tranquility, pleased to be with his own thoughts for a while.

After games for Colo-Colo, he is all but mowed down for autographs and pictures. He doesn’t mind that too much, he is very grateful, but he does like his personal space. It helps to know that a few of the other guys on the team feel the same way.

From a distance he can spot out a few Argentine players—not Messi, of course, he’s probably at the spa—and a smattering of others. He waves at those who wave at him, returning friendliness. Jensen has played for Barcelona and spent some time in Italy, but Colo-Colo has been his main team. National teams are amalgamations of other teams in the league, so Jensen knows his fair share of Latin American players and those from Spain and Italy. He isn’t as familiar with the rest of the European league, but he knows their reputations, plus a few select current and former players. The American team baffles him. People expect Jensen to follow them out of some kind of patriotic pride, but he has lived in Chile so long that he speaks, thinks, and dreams in Spanish. English has stuck around because of his extended family and business that requires it, but he is less Texas drawl and more Chilean accent.

Along the way, he gives saludos to the two of the strikers from Mexico, congratulating them on their win against Cameroon. He watched that game from his hotel room with Johnny and a few other guys, all of them shouting at once when no one seemed to be able to score. Finally, Mexico broke through, controlled their aim, and the announcers sang, _GOOOOOOOOOOL!_

In an area where there are no other players from what Jensen can see, he dives in. For a moment he worries about his bathing suit flying off, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world. He isn’t wearing a Speedo, but he’s not wearing dad-trunks either. It’s more like wearing a pair of fitted briefs—red, to honor La Roja. The instant he hits the water, his body cools down and his muscles thank him. This has turned out to be a good idea from Felipe after all.

Cutting through the water with ease, Jensen spreads out. He clears his mind of all things, even football. There is no echo of his thoughts on Germany, Brazil, or why Spain seemed to sink faster than a bag of bricks. He doesn’t crave Chilean hot dogs and he isn’t homesick. It’s just the water over his sore legs, unwinding the knots in his back, loosening him up with every stroke. In another life, Jensen would have pursued swimming.

He closes his eyes and floats for a minute, languid and slow in his movements.

Training is done until after their match tomorrow. Whatever the outcome on Monday, by Tuesday Alexis will be leading them in laps around the practice field. Advancing to Round Two is no joke. If they can make it past the first game, they have done well. The last World Cup saw elimination against Brazil, which was a quick and brutal death. Three to zero had been the result there. Jensen pushes that out of his mind as soon as it trickles in. Chileans are an underdog to root for against major teams like Brazil or Holland, but being realistic is different from being negative. He has trained too hard to doubt himself or his team at the Cup.

Set on thinking about the water instead, Jensen centers his mind. When he gets back to his room he’ll have another shower and order room service. Tomorrow’s match starts at eleven, with a shit ton of things to do beforehand, so it’ll be an early night. The smell of chlorine and suntan lotion soothes him.

Peace… for now.

Until Jensen collides with a solid brick wall.

Sputtering water, flailing from shock, Jensen releases a string of curses in Spanish. He is heedless of mothers, children, or the elderly in the wake of his accident.

A shocked voice interrupts his outburst.

The solid brick wall, it turns out, is actually the midriff of a human being.

“Hi!” the wall chirps nervously, gesturing wildly. “Hi, oh my god, I’m so sorry, oh my god. Hi! Jesus, that looked like it hurt. I mean… shit. I didn’t see you! Are you okay? Oh god, do you even speak English?” Prattling on, the wall brushes back his hair, the signal of a nervous tic. His voice elevates. “Hell-o. I am sorry. Very, very sorry. Do you speak English?”

Hissing, Jensen replies, “Better than you can swim, motherfucker.”

At the realization that Jensen does speak English, the wall’s eyes widen but quickly narrow. “But… you… you bumped into me.”

Jensen rubs the back of his neck. Fuck. How could this happen? There are _miles_ of pool space around and somehow he has managed to crash into a jolly giant. The wall towers while standing, casting a shadow over the pool, wringing his hands in anxiety.

“Whatever,” Jensen snips and moves, turning to swim away from the wall. Far, far away. Now the pool is not so relaxing. Even five year olds can swim without careening into each other. So much for his swimming career. But to be fair, the wall had been silent and still; anyone could have hit him.

There is a small splash of water caused by a quick movement. A shout is given. “Wait! Hey, wait up.” Ignore him—this is what Jensen’s instincts tell him. The wall is a tall white dude with an obvious American accent and manner of existence. No thank you. Get back to the lounge chairs, grab a towel, and head back to the room. That is the plan. It’s a fucking good plan. But the wall is stubborn as shit.

“Your suit’s down!”

Jensen’s hands immediately go to his ass, checking and finding that _no_ , his suit isn’t down. He turns to face the wall and declare war in a litany of garabatos. Slicing through the water, the wall appears behind him, having caught up easily. A look is given to Jensen, one that drives through him as soon as he’s aware of what it means. La Mirada—that’s what Jensen knows it as. It’s the kind of look born in two places: overcast alleys or high-priced rooms run by those who line their pockets with stolen earnings. Danger is in that look, for more than one reason, and Jensen is very much aware of where and who he is. Maybe things are different in the States. Maybe not so much in Texas, but elsewhere. Maybe La Mirada exists over there without the drone and whirr of problematic discovery, freakish unveiling. But it exists as it does _here_ in Brasil as much as it exists in Las Condes or any other part of Chile and South America.

It seems to exist wherever the wall comes from.

Gentler than an across-field signal, the wall nods. Anyone around them wouldn’t think anything of it, as it’s barely perceptible. Jensen sees it; he is the first to look away.

Could he tell?

“Not if you don’t want to,” is murmured by the wall, who seems tense now.

What a bother. Jensen shakes his head and turns away. He walks towards the edge of the pool, set to get out and ignore La Mirada, which follows him even when his back is turned. Hungry and peaked, he can feel it. Expanding and rasping at the center of his rib cage, it squeezes the air out of him. He reaches the edge and places his hands on the bright blue tiles. Only umbrellas block out Brazilian sunlight. And the shadow of the wall. Too large to be a football player, too American to probably care for it at all. Paparazzi? Undercover journalist? Fumbling tourist here for some fun before he’s headed back to his white picket fence life in the States?

Jensen looks over his shoulder. The wall hasn’t moved.

He returns the nod.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, little transition from one scene to the next. :D
> 
> When Jensen says it's not safe out there, he's referring to the protests in Brasil. I'm going to stay away from that topic in this fic and I'm sorry about that because it really is something that deserves to be talked about. But, this is fic and not an essay. I do urge you to find out what's really happening in Brasil. Anyway, onward.

It can’t be at the hotel. Not even if they could get another room just for themselves. The hotel is booked solid anyway. Jensen doesn’t want to shit where he eats. Anything could happen and anyone could see. “Not here,” is all he says once they’re out of the pool. Jesus fuck, the wall is larger on land. How the hell is this going to work?

“But I have my own room,” the wall tries, motioning towards the eastern side of the resort.

Jensen cuts him off. The wall is like a god damned puppy; it shows in the slightly wounded look he displays after Jensen utters a firm, “No.”

Humidity generates around them, stifling and unmerciful out of the sanctuary of the water. If they stand here much longer, La Mirada is going to force them apart and Jensen isn’t sure if he’d be grateful or regretful. He would be full of something, that’s for sure. He places his hands on his hips, widening his stance. On the flipside, the wall has his hands moving at all times, whether they’re running through his hair or fluttering out of anxiety. He feels it too. It may not be called La Mirada to him but it’s there.

“Fine,” he relents with a deep exhale, his pink mouth forming an O. “Meet me in the lobby, twenty minutes.”

“You got a car?” Jensen asks sharply. “Do you even know where you’re going? It’s not safe out there.”

Turning away from Jensen, the wall shrugs. “Guess you’ll have to see.”

What Jensen sees, however, is the wall’s back, and everything promised below it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another small chapter. <3

“A Vespa? You’re taking us out on a Vespa?”

“It’s not just any Vespa, dude, this is a 946.”

“It’s a fucking scooter.”

“Ugh, you know what? Just sit your ass down, okay?”

“Where? There isn’t any room on it with you taking up all the space.”

“Shut the fuck up,” the wall laughs, “and sit your whiny ass _down_. Do you want a helmet?”

Jensen’s nose scrunches. “No.”

A bright yellow helmet is thrust into Jensen’s chest. The wall puts his own helmet on, tucking his hair back. “Too bad, man. I don’t play around with safety.”

“Are you some kind of fucking Boy Scout?”

The scooter comes to life. Jensen finds himself pressed against the wall’s back. Swimmer—he has to be. His shoulders are twice as broad as his waist. The man is built, but there’s a softness to him that suggests youth. Well, that and the puppy dog quality to him. He can’t be that much older or younger than Jensen.

Before they head off, the motor rumbles and the wall lets out a laugh that deeply worries his passenger.

“Baby,” the wall announces, his voice hidden to everyone but Jensen and the Vespa, “today I can be anyone you want me to be.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eek! smut in the next chapter. i had to keep you waiting, i'm sorry. XD 
> 
> nothing much to explain here, other than that Brasil has beautiful architectural sights.

Jorge gave each player very specific rules for their stay in Brazil. He doesn’t want scandals and he sure as hell doesn’t want anyone getting fucked up. If he has to send Alexis after them to babysit them like guaguas, then fucking shame on them. Whatever they do, they must remember that they aren’t here on vacation. They are here as some of the greatest football players in the world.

Screaming on a Vespa is not the way Jensen thought he would spend his time in Brazil.

Propelling through the narrow, crowded streets of downtown Rio de Janeiro, the Vespa comes close to ejecting its passengers three times. The wall runs a red light, bangs a left, shouts at a taxi that cuts them off, and pushes the motor to full speed. Skyscrapers and palm trees whip past them. Jensen tries to focus on something, but his head rattles inside the helmet. He should have asked for full body gear. He is going to die. _They_ are going to die—if he has to die in a scooter crash in Rio de Janeiro, he is taking the fucking crazy-ass driver down with him.

A prayer to the gods of Brazil is sent as the Vespa slices through a clogged section of the city. Across a square of pedestrians they go, with the wall hollering in broken Spanish for people to get out of the way. Jensen smacks the wall’s helmet and cusses that they’re in _Brazil_ —idiot—and they speak Portuguese. Of course, right after, the Vespa careens to the left and Jensen’s arms return to the anchor that is the wall’s chest. There’s nothing sexy about this position, though there could be. With any other driver, there would be a chance to do a little bump and grind, get a little worked up before they arrive at their destination. He could rub against the perk of the wall’s ass or clench his thighs around the wall’s hips. But no. Jensen has managed to successfully leave the safety of the Royal Tulip and all he knows, trading it all for a death ride on a neon yellow scooter of doom. Red lights are non-existent. Yellow lights are dares. Green lights are opportunities of insanity.

This is why the helmet is necessary. Jensen might puke in his.

Five impossible minutes later, and the Vespa’s motor is cut. By the grace of the universe, they have arrived in one piece to their destination, which is…

“An art museum?” Jensen blurts out, slurring his speech, inwardly swearing in Spanish. “Is this a joke?”

The wall removes his helmet and hefts himself off the Vespa, unlatching from Jensen’s grip. He shakes his head, waves of curling dark hair loosening. “Nope,” he says, dimples on smug display. “You’re tense. I figured we could walk around and then… well, you know.”

“Tense?” he sputters at the wall, trying and failing to get his helmet off. “Who the fuck says I’m tense? What kind of maniac wouldn’t be tense after _that_ cruise?! Augh! God dammit!” Every yank at the helmet increases his frustration. He should have gone back to his comfortable, air conditioned room. Instead, here he is at an art museum of all places, after nearly having died on a scooter driven by a large, sweaty American. Great. This is wonderful.

Large hands appear on top of Jensen’s helmet, stilling him. Jensen shuts up. He watches as somehow deft fingers unbuckle the strap near Jensen’s chin. The helmet is slid off, with an affectionate card through Jensen’s hair. “You’re tense,” the wall proclaims. “This is a quiet place. No one’s here with the game in town. You watch the game, right?”

He wants to reply that he does more than watch the game, but he refrains. The less they know about each other, the better. He hasn’t gotten the wall’s name because it’s not important. La Mirada doesn’t require details; it just requires satisfaction. Jensen nods. He takes the offered hand to help him off the Vespa, but after that, their hands drop, a movement initiated by both of them.

The wall offers no information about himself, either, despite constantly talking. He gives Jensen a rundown of the museum as they walk from the parking lot up to the concrete and glass building. It’s the Museum of Modern Art and it boasts a modernist architecture style, with external concrete pillars and beams. This allows the museum to be free of internal columns or confining structural walls. All of this is said like the wall is ordering a cheeseburger. And all the while, as they walk side by side, his hands are in motion, pointing and directing and showing. Even the wall’s mouth is expressive, the corners of it tightening when he asks if he’s boring Jensen.

“This is better than the fucking scooter,” Jensen admits. “How do you know so much?” The urge to speak in Spanish overwhelms him, but he presses it down. It’s odd speaking English so much to someone who isn’t his relative.

Proudly grinning, the wall confesses that he’s an art nerd. His favorite art museum is in New York City, but this one is pretty cool too. “I got a guided tour last week on an off day,” he mentions and they reach the lobby. At least the wall has good manners; he holds the door open for Jensen. Well, this is true until it’s time to pay for admission. The wall stands next to Jensen, looking clueless. Jensen stares him down, clearing his throat and motioning to the counter.

“What?” the wall says with a smirk. “I drove here, dude.”

Grumbling that the wall _catapulted_ them here, Jensen takes out his wallet and forks over what could have bought him three hot dogs back in Santiago—plus two empanadas.

A few people linger in the lobby, chatting in Portuguese. They must be art students. Jensen wonders if that is what the wall is. Maybe a university student studying abroad for the summer? He leads them through the building, with confidence that manages to stay humble. Weird. At every other piece, he asks Jensen for his opinion, and even though Jensen’s thoughts aren’t as eloquent as his own, he listens. This is a very odd one night stand. Here they are, stopped in front of a child’s doll that has been covered in black metal spikes, one arm raised.

“I think it conveys how difficult childhood can be,” the wall whispers, his eyes examining the doll. “But its body language gives a hint at strength. You know, perseverance.”

With an eyebrow raised, Jensen looks over at him. “It’s a doll, covered in spikes.”

When the wall smiles, his tongue peeks out between slightly crooked teeth. It’s a playful smile—a challenge. “Is that all you see? You don’t see any other meaning besides what’s literally in front of you?”

“Is seeing not believing?” Jensen counters with a small huff. “Isn’t that the only thing that matters? Your opinions are subjective—so who cares what you make of this? In the end, that’s all it is: a doll covered in spikes.” English is clumsy out of his mouth but he manages; the wall’s interest is piqued.

Rubbing his hands together in thought, the wall leans back. “Oh, a realist, eh?”

Jensen shrugs. “I don’t like being told bullshit.”

“Is what I just said bullshit, then?”

A moment is given for Jensen to mull his answer over. “Yeah,” he laughs, walking ahead, onto the next piece. “I guess it was.” For a split second, he fears that he might have offended the wall. Instead, the wall follows after him, puppy-like as ever, yipping that Jensen needs to rethink reality and to stop walking so damn fast.

This is truly the strangest one night stand Jensen has ever had.

It is made stranger by their visit to the gift shop an hour later, where the wall buys a sticker with the museum’s logo on it and tucks it into his wallet. He claims he will paste the sticker onto his luggage later, like an art museum souvenir should be. Upon seeing this sticker, the wall insists, all other art snobs will be jealous that he got to visit here and they didn’t.

They exit towards the back, walking into the gardens, which Jensen is told were designed by someone else. “It still compliments the dramatic slant of the exterior pillars,” the wall adds and bumps their shoulders together. “Tell me I’m turning you on with this.”

Outside doesn’t disappoint. In a rectangular, concrete lake, there are square patches of floating grass. There seems to be a theme here, but Jensen is afraid he’ll be the one spouting bullshit this time. He chides himself as the wall rattles on, happily carrying on an entire conversation. What does Jensen care what the wall thinks of him? They’re not doing this to _care_. They’re doing this to scratch an itch—to satisfy La Mirada, which can’t be taken back.

“Hey,” the wall says, his tone turning soft, “this place is kind of deserted.”

“Yeah. It is.” With the game in town, most people’s attention is focused on that. A few people were wandering the museum along with them, but as Jensen can see for himself, no one else is in the gardens.

“This could be a moment, you know.” The wall’s voice is deeper now, more to his natural cadence, less anxious and eager to please. He moves closer to Jensen. The fit of his v-neck, powder blue shirt is more apparent, muscles flexing underneath what seems to be soft, light fabric. Lips are licked, like Jensen is lunch. “Yeah,” the wall breathes, “a really nice moment.”

Something is supposed to interrupt this. A car horn or a bird cawing or someone shouting at them.

Nothing does.

La Mirada digs its claws into them and yanks them both forward. Jensen does what he has never done before: kiss another man in public. The wall shuts up for more than ten consecutive seconds. It’s a first for everyone.

Surprisingly, the wall is a good kisser. Jensen expects the kiss to reflect the wall’s personality but it doesn’t. The wall is skilled, but he makes Jensen work for it, pulling back a fraction and clamping his mouth shut until Jensen all but pries it open. Leaning up is weird. Their noses bump. The angle needs work. Jensen is breathing way too loud. His heart is beating as fast as it was on the scooter.

No one pulls away. They keep eating face, mashing their lips together, snogging, besando—whatever you want to call it, they keep doing it. The first kiss turns into two, which multiplies into four, and there are hands in Jensen’s hair and Jensen’s hands are gripping firm biceps.

When teeth sink into Jensen’s bottom lip, that’s when Jensen tugs on a piece of the wall’s hair.

They run back to the scooter.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sex chapter! avert your eyes if you wish. XD
> 
> a few notes. chile is one of those teams that bans its players from sex during the cup. obviously, i've disregarded that for fic. 
> 
> ay, chile. ay, USA. no more. :( well, that doesn't stop me writing this! next up is the big reveal and we finally get to the field and these guys. it's going to be awesome. :D 
> 
> thanks for your patience! hope you're enjoying the games.

The wall takes them to a hotel where no questions are asked and the lady at the counter seems bored with them. She takes Jensen’s cash, slides over a key, and turns back to her telenovelas.

Luxury, this is not. The air conditioning unit jammed into the tiny window of their room gives out within five minutes of their stay. It is noticed only because it begins rattling and smoking. The wall laughs it off and fans it with his shirt, until the smoke has dissipated and Jensen has had a good view of the muscles in the wall’s back.

At least the bed is clean. But the headboard isn’t nailed down. Noise is made easily with them sharing a bed that seems like it’s seen better days. There is the bed, a flimsy nightstand, and a single light. If they want a bathroom, they’ve got to walk down the hallway and use a shared one. Jensen only paid for three hours. If the wall wants more time, he’ll have to fork over the cash. Still, the place is clean and it’s good enough. Good enough for the wall to push Jensen down onto the bed and yank his shorts down.

“You’re blond here,” the wall says with a smirk, fingering the fine, curling hairs on Jensen’s lower stomach. He kneels down on the floor, at the edge, in between the vee of Jensen’s legs. There is no mention of the nickname—that’s too personal.

“You gonna blow me or you gonna talk?” Jensen pushes his hips up.

Fingers twine around sensitive hairs and give a small tug. The wall presses his cheek against the inside of Jensen’s left thigh and looks up. He wraps his right hand around Jensen’s cock, a flash of surprise in his eyes; it’s softer than he expected. “Don’t you ever slow down?” is murmured by a mouth that looks too good to be speaking right now.

An urge to tell the wall that his career is all about speeding up and never slowing down is resisted. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, laying back in the bed, stretched out, his shirt riding up. The wall makes a noise of approval, adds spit to his hand, and strokes a little faster. Using his tongue, circles are traced on the sensitive place where Jensen’s thigh meets his hip. When Jensen’s breath hitches, teeth appear, and a moan he doesn’t mean to let out escapes. The drag of those teeth is agony. Everywhere around his cock is touched, bitten, and licked. Jensen whines as the wall lets go of his cock, leaving it exposed, the areas around it sensitive and hot. He feels it twitch and opens his eyes at the right moment.

The wall settles himself in between Jensen’s legs, his broad shoulders resting and hair falling forward. He brushes it back himself, tucking it behind an ear, looking up at Jensen as his mouth sinks down. Muscles in Jensen’s thighs flex, and he feels his lower stomach squeeze. It is an effort not to take what he wants. He isn’t sure how experienced the wall is and the last thing he needs is a beginner choking during a blow job and biting down in the wrong place. Slow. That’s how the wall eases him in—inch by inch, swallowing him whole, until Jensen takes back his doubt. Slow. The tip of him bumps against the back of the wall’s throat. Delicate, fluttering muscles respond; Jensen can hear it all. His right leg is pushed up, a decision he wall makes, and impossible pressure is added in languid undulations. Having control of the cock in his mouth and throat, the wall begins to use his hands.

A massage is given to Jensen’s right hamstring. That in itself is worthy of a moan. He twists around, and grabs a fistful of the wall’s hair. Holy shit. The wall can feel where he’s tense. It isn’t a half assed attempt at a massage, either. Firm fingers press in the right places, tracing the problem, hunting it down, and working out the knot. More spit is added. Hands leave Jensen’s thighs and snake underneath him, groping his ass, squeezing, dragging them closer. Jensen gasps when the volume is increased; the wall starts to bob his head, opening his mouth wider, allowing for the echo of Jensen’s cock driving into his mouth to be released. A deep breath is taken. The wall’s mouth slides up to the tip, pauses to flick his tongue under the bloated crown, and in one motion, swallows Jensen until his nose is pressed to the base.

“Gonna…” Jensen warns, tugging on the wall’s hair once again. “Fuck…”

Plush, wet, heat pops off. The wall wipes away at the spit around his mouth, panting but smiling. “Come inside me,” is whispered hoarsely. “You do that, yeah?”

Jensen has never bottomed. He was prepared to swap blow jobs and leave, since he couldn’t imagine the wall agreeing to bottom either. He’s too fucking tall. But still, all six feet and five inches of him heft onto the bed, roll over onto his stomach, and present Jensen with an ass the dips and curves into a firm, round offering. “Now you’re taking too long,” the wall laughs, with a hint of anxiety. “Is this…?”

“I don’t have a condom,” Jensen blurts out, his brain still getting it together. “Or lube.”

Barebacking is hot if it’s between partners. Jensen has done that before. He’s liked it. But as much as he doesn’t see a problem spending three hours with the wall, barebacking is out of the question. The wall grabs one of the thin pillows on the bed and holds it under his chest, facing the headboard. He murmurs that he has two condoms and three packets of lube in his shorts, which have long since been shed. As Jensen moves to retrieve them, the wall adds that Jensen should take off his shirt. That’s easier said than done; Jensen struggles to shuck his shirt. The wall laughs more, but this time, he sits up on the bed and helps out. He looks at the supplies in Jensen’s hands and then back up at Jensen.

“Go easy on me,” he asks quietly. “But don’t hold back, either.”

“You make no fuckin’ sense.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“None at all.” Jensen rips open the condom, then the lube.

“Yet you’re still here,” the wall sighs, laying back down, his head on the pillow under him.

Jensen mounts him from behind. It’s been a while, since he’s done this, too busy training and too tired to do anything about it. He knows that the wall is the vulnerable one here, even though he’s offering. The small, pink opening doesn’t look like it will stretch. Jensen presses the tip of himself against it and leans forward, reaching underneath them with one hand, steadying himself with the other. The wall makes a surprised noise when Jensen starts to jerk him off, as if he wasn’t expecting the reach around. Well, this might hurt. The wall is hung, but Jensen is the same size, and a little thicker.

The headboard protests every movement they do. They fight and wrestle for a few minutes as Jensen pushes in, rolling his hips, twisting and trying to find the right angle. He hits the wrong angle once, proven by a sharp inhale of pain from the wall, and Jensen rubs his back in apology. Humidity surrounds them. The wall opens up. Jensen buries himself, pressing them chest to back, and he bites down on the meat of the wall’s right shoulder.

Every muscle works. However, this is nothing like training. Jensen groans as a warning; he wants more.

“Don’t… oh god… don’t hold back,” the wall cries out and pushes back against Jensen. “Oh fuck, oh fuck… there… right there!” The headboard throttles. Jensen licks a stripe of sweat off of the wall’s exposed neck. Their breathing accelerates. Jensen pounds his cock onto the spot that has the wall bucking and twitching and clenching. Driving him harder, demanding more, Jensen vaults his hips into overdrive, slamming with precision, wrenching and plying the loudest, most guttural sounds from the wall’s long throat. Merciless on that spot, Jensen focuses. His balls slap, his cock fattens, and all around him is pressure that mimics the mouth that was on him before.

Jensen holds the wall down by his shoulders, and fucks him with one, two, three, four, five, six long, hard, thrusts. Lost, the wall shouts out something in English that Jensen doesn’t catch. Untouched, the wall comes, his movements during orgasm pushing Jensen over his own limit. He fills the condom up, pretends that it isn’t there, and repeatedly pushes into the wall as far as he can.

This might be it. Not everyone has Jensen’s endurance. He could go another round with only a few minutes’ rest. The wall is a mess of sweat, tears, and unintelligible words. He reaches back for Jensen and Jensen thinks it’s to ask him to pull out—that they’re done for now.

Instead, the wall says the opposite, when he can finally pull together words.

“Let me… let me ride you.”

 

The lady at the front desk is surprised when they pay for an extra hour. She hands over Jensen’s change with a raised eyebrow, looks him up and down, eyes lingering on his chest, and shakes her head.

In Portuguese, she mutters, “What a waste,” and goes back to her telenovela.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tiny chapter, and a somewhat angsty one, perhaps reflecting my sadness for Colombia. ;-; 
> 
> next chapter is the game! super excited to get right into it. :D 
> 
> notes! "eso no" = not that (a really blunt way of saying it). "no puedo vivir sin ti" = i can't live without you (really dramatic way of saying it). 
> 
> Oh! We will have art for this fic! done by the fabulous Kamidiox. so excited!
> 
> thank you for reading! <33

One of Chile’s disadvantages is that it has often been the shortest team at the Cup. The players on their team have almost never reached more than five foot ten. Alexis insists that they can use their height to their advantage, which they do quite frequently. No one can contort themselves better, or literally slide through the feet of their opponents like the La Roja. However, this makes long passes across the field from Claudio difficult to maintain control over. Getting a hold of the ball midair requires height and elevation. Jorge tried Jensen out as a defender for a practice game last year, thinking that they could use his height in that aspect. But when it came down to it, Jensen was and is better as a striker than a defender.

If they beat the EEUU, they’ll play Germany. If they lose to the EEUU, they’ll play Holland. Neither of those teams is very attractive to Jensen and the rest of his teammates, but they might be able to hold their own against the Germans, even if they are the tallest team at the Cup. Holland plays aggressively, using yellow cards and penalties to their advantage and depending on the referees during the match, there might be another unfair advantage at play. They also won against La Roja in the last Cup, not an event that anyone is eager to relive.

Playing in the Cup is worthy of glory in its own right, win or lose. It’s the pinnacle of soccer—what any amateur and professional vie for. There are millions of football players out there, each of them vying for even the chance to play in a stadium as packed as the ones at any Cup.

Giving up without a fight is where dishonor lies.

214-073-1982.

It’s a Dallas area code; Jensen recognizes it right away. This is the number that the wall writes down on the back of a faded ticket. He scribbles, writes his first name, and hands it over, the scooter’s engine rumbling as it idles outside of the main lobby of the Royal Tulip. Cautiously, the wall leans towards Jensen. What he’s expecting, Jensen can tell.

“Eso no,” Jensen blurts out, lapsing with his English. He puts his hands up in warning and takes a step back. “I… I have to go.” Is this giving up without a fight? Right here, right now, and not out on the field for once? Is he handing over the ball before it’s even in play? Shame burns in his face as he sees how the wall reacts. It’s like someone has been unnecessarily cruel to him and smashed a favorite toy. But he has to know. He just has to. They’ll call him puto all the same—gringo or not.

The dimples on the wall’s face twist as he frowns. Jensen feels a spark of anger. What the fuck was the wall expecting? For Jensen to take his number and swoon over it? For a fucking declaration of _love_? For a baby-baby-no-puedo-vivir-sin-ti?

“Fuck,” Jensen hisses, rubbing the back of his neck. That was _exactly_ what the wall was expecting.

Wordless, the wall revs life back into the scooter. It reels forward with a screech on the pavement.

And that’s how the wall leaves, without a helmet, and without looking back.

This is where dishonor lies.

Jensen’s consolation prize is tucked into his wallet, with a name ringing in his head all through his shower, during the brief talk that Jorge and Claudio have with the team, while he winds through his nightly routine, and up until he crawls into bed for sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters in a row for you! just TWO more games to go for this world cup, omg. i cannot BELIEVE what happened to Brasil yesterday. dear god.
> 
> thank you to all who have commented on the spanish in this fic. <3
> 
> spanish notes:
> 
> *luchador is a positive term for someone like a fighter, a soldier.   
> *unidos: united  
> *Gracias por dar todo... --"Thank you for giving your all. We're part of history. We are fighters. We are The One and Only Red."   
> *La Roja de Todo -- literal translation is "The Red of Everyone" but it means that the team belongs to everyone, that they are the one and only Red.   
> *"De que color es la sangre?" -- What color is blood? 
> 
> any questions, let me know! :D

All true luchadores have an itch.

It doesn’t stop once it starts. Only one thing satisfies it—not sex, not food, not any other activity—and that is playing the beautiful game.

Most of the players who have made it to the Cup started small. They tumbled into shady parks after doing their chores or working in factories or helping out at home. Their feet carried them towards whatever space a game could be played, at whatever hour anyone could gather. And if there wasn’t anyone to play with, they played by themselves, invisible crowds cheering for them in a volume they were certain they would one day hear.

There are sixty thousand seats in today’s stadium.

Football is universal. It can be played at five in the morning or at three in the afternoon. It can be played with the neighborhood kids or alone, practicing shots against a wall, imagining that the world’s toughest goalie fails to defend one of your world-famous attacks. Football doesn’t even need an actual ball; Jensen has seen kids play with bunched up plastic bags, kicking it around as if it were the latest Adidas balón. How luchadores get picked up from the streets to the professional leagues varies. Some, like Jensen, started young and pursued it above all else. Others didn’t get the itch until later, but they found their way and here they are, twenty-three white jerseys leaning towards their Captain, five minutes before hitting the field.

Claudio commands them to forget everything about themselves as individuals. They are unidos—and no one and nothing can come between them. Not the ref, not Jorge, not their opponents, and especially not each other.

“Gracias por dar todo,” Claudio says, holding his right hand above his heart, looking out at all of them. “Muchachos, somos parte de historia. Somos luchadores. Somos La Roja de Todo.” Hands in the center. Play. Play. Play. Jensen has already listened to Stacy’s Mom, twice, and all he can feel is the grass under his feet and the fuerte presence of La Roja.

“¿De que color es la sangre?” Alexis shouts, bouncing in place, his hand at the top.

Twenty-two voices ring out. “¡Roja!”

“¿¡De que color es la sangre, mierda?!” Jorge bellows around them.

They jump for each echo. “¡Roja! ¡Roja! ¡Roja!” The circle squeezes together. Jensen feels his body lighten. “¡CHI CHI CHI! ¡LE LE LE! ¡VIVA CHILE!”

The field waits for them.

 

Americans are historically weak at the Cup. They lack the training of some of the European countries and the discipline of the African teams. Of course, Jensen thinks they also lack the passion the Latin American teams possess. No hay furia—there is no fury.

Football is a straightforward game. Sure, there are picky rules and certain procedures to follow, but it’s far simpler than American football, basketball, or tennis. During one ninety minute game—split into two forty-five minute plays—the object of the game is to refrain from touching the ball with your hands and get it into the opponent’s goal. That’s it. It’s that fucking simple. Well, at least it _should_ be that simple. Certain players resort to playing dirty. They are all about dramatics and falling over themselves in an attempt to have a foul called. Yellow cards given can sometimes be a matter of politics, or the hand of a racist ref. Any penalty is an attempt at demeaning the other team’s confidence.

Fuck that.

Jensen is here to play. He holds his hand over his heart as the Chilean national anthem plays and sings alongside Alexis and Isla. Anyone can score; even the goalie. Any part of the body except for the hands and arms, can be used to deflect the ball, pass the ball, and get it home. It’s the strikers’ main job, but Jensen is not afraid to depend on his midfielders for an assist. Everyone is involved—each and every luchador must push forward a play, defend their ground, and communicate. Skill and judgment count for everything today. Qualifying to the next round cannot make them lazy. It is preferable to win, come out at the top of their group, and play against the Germans. The EEUU can have Holland.

Watching previous Cups at home as a boy, Jensen always thought that the players looked so small. No matter how large the screen he could watch the game on, they looked like ants on a patch of grass. Close ups provided more intimate views, but cameras don’t follow players the same way they do for other sports. Now, standing on the field of an actual Cup game, as one of two strikers for his team, Jensen feels larger than life. It doesn’t matter than sixty thousand people are around him, cheering, chanting, singing, and dancing. It doesn’t matter that the stadium in Rio de Janeiro is the largest he’s ever played in. He doesn’t feel small. All he can focus on is the game.

Both teams line up for friendly handshakes. Claudio reminds everyone to be a gentleman.

For ninety minutes—and maybe more—they will share the field with this opposing team. One by one, Jensen shakes the hands of the American team. Everyone nods. A few handshakes are firmer than others. Their goalie is massive. Their strikers give a nod to Jensen and Alexis.

Every range of fitness and finesse will be on display in two minutes. Jensen can distantly hear fans screaming, “¡Olé, olé, olé! ¡Chile!” Football demands cardiovascular endurance. It requires strength, flexibility, and speed. Two more players down the line and they’ll assume positions. The game will start.

On the very last American player, the hand Jensen is shaking doesn’t let go. He looks up to see what gives. Surrounded by thousands, Jensen freezes. His mouth clamps shut.

Jensen is shaking the wall’s hand.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, this is a soccer chapter, so read it like you're listening to a game. i hope i pulled off writing a game being played. i'm not sure. XD i tried! 
> 
> THERE IS ART FOR THIS FIC! 8D I've embedded it here and it's available up at my tumblr. thank you to the wonderful Kamidiox for the piece, i absolutely love it. <3 
> 
> Chile is La Roja, but they switch out between red and white jerseys. i'm kind of in love with Jared's blue headband. ;w; 
> 
> notes!
> 
> *first, Tim Howard is amazing.   
> *second, i'm mixing games. in reality, i can't remember the last time chile played usa. i'm basing this game off of a mix between us/germany, chile/spain, chile/brasil, and us/belgium.  
> *third, if you're watching the cup, try to watch at least a little in Spanish. the announcers are so much better. there is nothing better than hearing GOOOOLLLLL from one of the Latino announcers. :D
> 
> malgenio-- bad tempered
> 
> va ser un webon... --he's going to be a sorry fuck, completely miserable when we're done with him. isn't that right, guys? we'll fight for el rubio!
> 
> (el rubio is an affectionate term, literally means the blond.)
> 
> desculpa-- sorry
> 
> any questions, let me know! i won't get to see today's game but i'll be watching highlights. may the best team win. :D

A fucking defender.

It makes so much fucking sense. Six foot five, of course he would be a fucking defender, if not the fucking goalie. Mierda. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Alexis nudges Jensen’s shoulder.

If looks could kill, Jensen would be dead. Alexis, too, because the wall looks at him the same way. And Jensen doesn’t want to poke an angry bear, but the wall’s face can twist into the meanest scowl; it isn’t a good look for him. Neither will it be a good look for him when Jensen breaks through his defense.

Turning around, Jensen tries to shake it off. This is not the time to think about last night, what they did, or how they left each other. He follows Alexis up to the center.

Billions of people are watching all over the world, on any screen they can find. Jensen knows that his parents are in Santiago, tuning in, praying and cheering. If his brother was successful in his trip up to Dallas, then he’s convinced their grandparents to watch this game, if anything for the teams. EEUU vs. Chile—it’s an exciting match. But Jensen is determined to make this a quick game. He doesn’t want overtime and fuck everyone if they get into penalty kicks. Ninety minutes. This has to be finished in ninety minutes.

Standing in his position at the far end of the field, the wall has his hands on his hips, like he’s got somewhere else to fucking be. He looks different in his uniform, less like a puppy and more like a tank. Long hair is tied back to form a short ponytail, held in place by a blue headband. And, just like at the hotel, the wall is sweating rivers. This is part of La Roja’s advantage—the weather. The Americans aren’t as used to the climate in Brasil as they are. It doesn’t get nearly as humid in Santiago, but Jorge moved their practices fourteen hours north, to Arica, where it’s all desert. Jensen looks over to Alexis, who nods and signals to the midfielders. This is it. Alexis meets up with an American striker and Jensen takes his left wing. When the whistle blows, it’s his job to provide help getting the ball further down the field and away from Claudio, who is goalie.

Nothing is louder than that whistle.

Nothing is faster that the dig of Jensen’s spikes against the grass.

Nothing takes his focus off the ball, not even the wall and the revelation. He is a professional. This isn’t the street. His mother is not nagging him to come inside for dinner. All he does is run and search for pockets. He finds them easy at first, running yards without an issue, the American midfielders underestimating Jensen’s speed because of his size. He’s leaner than some of the Germans, the tallest players at the Cup this year. At a glance, he recognizes a few players. He’s known Dempsey from an interview in Dallas. Alexis passes to Gary. Tearing up the field, Gary muscles Jones and another American out of the way. Too many Americans. They’ve narrowed in on Alexis, blocking him from a successful pass. Dodging, Gary passes backwards to Jensen. The ball is his. Five minutes into the game and the Americans are pushing back with unexpected energy.

A signal from Jensen’s right comes from Charles. The attack must shift. Crowded by midders, Jensen takes a sharp left. He has to find Alexis. He employs the best footwork he’s got, finds a space between the legs of a midder, and strikes. The pass finds Eugenio, who directs it back to Gary, who finishes it by kicking across the right. As Jensen makes his way up the field, towards the American goal, he knows by instinct that Alexis has the ball. La Roja has to sweep.

One cry from Vidal—just as Jensen has started to breach defense—catches Jensen’s attention. The Americans have won control and the balón is headed in the opposite direction. Fuck.

Stamina counts in football, but so do decisions. Jensen can either sprint down the field back towards the goal to provide some kind of defense, or he can stay here, near their opponent’s goal, and wait for Alexis to break through again. Ten minutes in and Jensen can tell that it’s going to rain any minute. The humidity is thicker on the field, pressing into their uniforms, weighing their bodies down. If this is what he’s feeling, he can’t imagine the Americans’ perspective.

He decides to stay back and hover, waiting for Claudio or Alexis to make an across-field pass. Wrestling is being done by the goal. Jensen can see Jara and Gary struggling to regain control. Alexis looks up. From his place, he makes eye contact to Jensen—at the first possible moment, they’re going to shoot and Jensen needs to be open. A nod solidifies their agreement. Gary fumbles. Alexis recovers. He swings his right leg back and the ball goes flying. Jensen charges towards it, keeping his eyes open, watching the pass and putting together calculations in his head. It’s going to fall… there!

Three long strides forward and Jensen jumps in the air. He can recover this pass.

In air, Jensen has the breath knocked out of him. Elbowed in the small of his back, he crumples, rolling to a stop, landing on the field face down. A whistle blows. Holy fuck. Not even fifteen minutes into the game and a foul is being called. Jensen didn’t even see who the fuck hit him. When La Roja sweeps over, arguing in bits and pieces of English and Spanish, he relaxes. Alexis puts his hands on his shoulders. One of their team assistants comes over. Cringing, Jensen rolls over, pushes out a breath, and blinks his eyes open to the bright lights of the stadium.

Gary is barking at the ref; Eugenio is shouting at the small crowd of American players.

During games, some players will fall to the ground to make a show of it and curry favor with the refs, vying to give the other team a yellow card—or, potentially, a red card. But what many viewers don’t understand is that most of the time, when a player is down, it’s a big deal. A knock here and there can be quickly recovered from. But they’re not jogging here—they are playing a professional game. Some of these collisions can end careers.

With a drink of water and a hand from Alexis, Jensen gets to his feet. As soon as he is up, he searches for the fucker who knocked into him midair—a fucking cheap ass shot. He sees the ref hold up a yellow card, standing next to the wall.

“Really?!” Jensen snaps, shoulders bristling. He lets out a few curses in Spanish, but is curbed by Alexis.

“Stop it,” all five foot seven of Alexis commands, his tone softening after that. “It is ruled fairly, my friend. Let it go.”

Had there not been a yellow card there, Jensen would not be yielding. But the rest of La Roja is satisfied with the ref’s call, so Jensen shoves aside the pettiness of what the wall has resorted to. The wall ignores his own teammates and reassumes his position, broad back to Jensen, and a slump to his stance. From across the field, Gary nods to Jensen. La Roja will take care of this player. One of their own does not get hurt without retribution. This is a game—at its simplest it’s about the ball—but La Roja can play however the Americans want. Jensen hesitates, but he doesn’t know why. He stretches, gets back into his position, and gives a nod to Gary. A signal is sent out throughout the rest of La Roja. The ball is put into play on the right by Jara, which rockets out towards Alexis, but is recovered by an American. Charging forward, the game changes in seconds. Jensen hangs back with Alexis, allowing space for Gary. A scuffle occurs towards the goal and the ball is kicked out of play, with control given to the Americans. Fuck.

Loss of possession happens when Silva and Jara are thrown off course by Dempsey. Jensen races back towards Claudio, finding space, being bold and shoving an American midder off balance. The shove isn’t called and the ball is kept in play. Luck is on their side and Jensen won’t press it further—he passes to Alexis, Alexis takes it and sweeps the ball in between a defender’s legs, recovering it on the flipside. He is blocked by the wall and his teammates on the right side, so he passes left to Eugenio, who finds Jensen.

Jensen jumps. The ball hits his chest with a thump and bounces off onto the field, but he snatches control of it, retaining the pass, bumping shoulders with two Americans. Footwork comes into play. Twenty minutes in and it’s 0-0. This has to be a ninety minute game. Jensen takes a risk. He kicks the ball out of the pocket he’s cornered into, trying to get a long-range pass to Alexis. The audience gets louder. Alexis dives. The ball looks good. It rolls towards the left corner of the goal… it finds the legs of an American defender. With a hard kick towards the center, the wall ruins what would have been victory. Snapping back to action, Jensen ignores the wall hugging his goalie. He sprints back down the field, shaking off two American midders, snaking in and making himself available to Gary.

There’s a slip somewhere up front; Jensen doesn’t see it but he hears Alexis yell for backup. Dempsey sees the target. Claudio stays close, with Gary pushing to clear away the danger. Jensen shouts out in Spanish—calling for aid to the right, where there’s space and he knows Dempsey is going to aim for. It’s a difficult angle to kick from, all the way from the sidelines, but it can be done. Rain joins the sweat in Jensen’s hair, providing no relief as he watches Dempsey lineup.

The shot flies over the bar. Too wide.

Some cheers drown out while others escalate. Relief sets in. Claudio holds the ball, waiting for Jensen and Alexis to resume positions further down the field. His aim is good, but it’s high and goes off target, recovered by Bradley. Ten minutes are left in the first half and Jensen is restless. Energy thrums through him. The itch is satisfied, but he wants to win. Of course the wall massaged his hamstrings. Of course he had the same endurance. But how fucking stupid of him to think that Jensen would allow to be kissed twice in public. He knows what this game is. He knows what it’s like to be watched by billions.

Fueled by frustration, Jensen snaps for the ball, recovering it with a few fights from the midders. He twists around, putting his footwork to good use, faking left, dodging right. Spurred on by his luck, he runs with the ball, towards the goal, every muscle working overtime, plowing over and through anyone in his way. He knows that Jean is on his left, ready to pass to Alexis, who is closer to the goal, also on the left. Jensen sides around another midder. He locks eyes with the wall for a split second, turning his head right.

The wall falls for it.

Jensen throttles the ball to the left, where it meets with Alexis, who dives past two defenders. With his foot out, Alexis forces the ball to spin. It glides past the goalie and the net bulges.

“¡GOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLL! ¡GOOOOLLLLL PARA CHILE!”

Alexis runs towards Jensen, jumps, and whoops, kisses his cheek, grabs Jean and does the same. Everyone is thumping each other on the back or the chest, screaming, grinning, and basking in the thunderous applause in the stadium. ¡GOOOLLLLLL! rings out in Jensen’s head, surrounds him from the announcers, his teammates, and the crowd.

One glance towards the wall is a mistake. The anger there has been replaced by something else.

Back to the center of the field, with five minutes left until halftime, retaining control of the ball is critical. They don’t need to win by a large margin; they just have to win. If they can keep it at 1-0, that’s fine, but 2-0 would be a more definitive win. That way, even if the Americans score once, La Roja can still be ahead by one. But Jensen trusts La Roja’s defense to not give them the chance.

Two more times, La Roja gets the ball close. Jensen takes a shot, which he knows is a long one. It’s an odd angle, but he can’t pass to Alexis and no one else is close. The wall dives for the ball but Jensen’s faster. This time his size works. He slips past the wall, turns, and shoots. The ball hits the goalie’s legs and bounces off, recovered by the rest of the American defense until it is passed to the goalie. Damn.

Halftime is announced with another blow of the whistle and a loud speaker announces the score: Chile 1, United States 0.

There is a fifteen minute break in between halves. The next half will go on for forty-five minutes, with about two minutes of overtime to account for injuries. Jensen’s back is a little sore still, but the goal that they have soothes it. He is satisfied with the rest of La Roja, victorious as they walk off the field and back into the locker room. Jorge and Claudio rush Jensen and Alexis, congratulations all around for the assist and the score. Each and every player is given praise before getting down to business. There needs to be ten minutes for regrouping and strategy, and five minutes for rest. As they listen to Jorge’s commentary, each lucador is given a banana and a bottle of Gatorade. Jensen finishes quickly, nodding when Jorge asks him if he’s okay.

“We’ll get ese gringo back,” Gary crows, patting Jensen on the shoulder. “Que malgenio.”

“Va ser un webon completamente miserable cuando terminamos,” Johnny adds with an affectionate punch to Jensen’s shoulder. “¿No cierto, muchachos? ¡Luchamos por el rubio!”

Claudio settles everyone down, laughing and shaking his head. He reminds them that there is still another half to be played and that the EEUU is not folding as easily as previously thought. Their goalie—Tim Howard—is exceptional. “Any other goalie would have missed el rubio’s shot,” Claudio says with a shake of his head. “But he can hold out. I have seen his technique before. Do not aim between his legs consistently. If you can, aim elsewhere every other time.” He turns to Jensen and Alexis. “The defenders are better this time. Jorge did research and the tall one… Pada…”

“Padalecki,” Jensen grits out. “Jared Padalecki.”

“Yes. He is twenty-three…”

“What?!” Jensen gasps but clears his throat. “Desculpa.”

Eyebrows raised, Claudio asks, “Is he someone you know?”

About to blurt out a lie about Texas, Jensen is interrupted by a knock at the locker room door. One of the assistants opens it. Everyone turns to see who it is. Maybe it’s an ambassador for the President. She watches their games closely and is a huge Colo-Colo fan. She also lives a few doors down from Jensen in Las Condes. As the door opens, Jensen can hear the crowd from outside roaring and cheering through halftime. He smiles to himself, feeling relaxed. The smile drops from his face as he sees the wall being let through. Gary immediately snarls at the wall to get back to his teammates before trouble starts.

Stammering, the wall declares that he means to apologize to their striker. He looks at Jensen, who quickly turns away, wiling his face to not go red.

Jorge thinks this is a good idea. In three words he conveys to Jensen that this is his opportunity to shake the defender’s confidence and to let him know that La Roja won’t stand for dirty plays. This is all said in rapid Spanish; Jensen follows his coach’s instructions but he isn’t happy about it. He steps outside with the wall, receiving pats on the back from La Roja for good luck. Jesus fuck. If they only knew.

“Okay…” the wall starts, but he makes a mistake by thinking he’s in charge of this conversation.

“What the fuck was _that_?!”

“Look, I’m…”

“Your next word better not be _sorry_ ,” Jensen warns, fuming from his spot three feet away from the wall.

“Well, uh…”

Impatient, with time running out, Jensen looks at the wall expectantly. Any day now, kid. What could he possibly have to say to Jensen right now? There’s no reason to apologize. If he wants to play that way, fine, Jensen and the rest of La Roja will follow suit. But what the wall did is over now, and he’s got a yellow card to show for it. One more yellow card and he’s off the field, plus banned from the next game. Every game counts after this match—Round Two is all about elimination.

Of course, what the wall says isn’t at all what Jensen expects to hear.

“I… I can’t stop thinking about you and I… crap, sorry, I suck at this… if we win, I wanna take you out on a date.” This is said with vigor in the wall’s voice. Thankfully, no one is in the locker room hallway where they are, though Jensen can hear the audience and smell the concession stand food.

Eyes narrowed, Jensen bristles. “And if we win?”

“I’ll buy you ice cream and we can forget about all of this.”

“We’ve never lost against you,” Jensen warns.

A buzzer from the locker room sounds, announcing that it is time to get moving for the second half. The last forty-five minutes of the game are here. They’ll switch sides of the field, resume positions, and fight until the ninetieth minute.

Disappearing, the wall shouts out, a wide smile on his face, “There’s always a first time for everything. Good luck.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHH FINAL GAME TODAY! 
> 
> unfortunately, i got stuck working and i won't be able to finish this fic in time for the game. but i have toss up this small chapter to get y'all going. :D i'll be checking scores while i'm at work. eeek, may the best team win! 
> 
> thanks for sticking with me for this fic! it's been fun doing something different. 
> 
> here we go!

His father had wanted him to play for the American team. If Jensen was going to make his life all about football, why not play for the United States? A scout had approached Jensen in Santiago when he was eighteen, and hearing that he was an American citizen, offered him a spot on a team out of Kansas. It would have made his entire family happy—even his parents, whose idea it had been to move to Chile in the first place.

But Jensen realized that very few players from the United States made it to teams like Barcelona or Manchester City or Real Madrid. His chances were better if he stuck with Colo-Colo, who promised him training tours with Barcelona as he matured, which would solidify his career. Within its own professional league, soccer is respected in the United States. But it’s not a national pastime and it’s not as highly regarded as it is in any Latin American country. Besides, Colo-Colo had never failed him in its promises; as long as Jensen remained the striker that he was, there would be a spot for him. And the fans are die-hards. He knows that they’re here now, setting aside their differences with the other Chilean teams, and cheering for La Roja, filling the stadium with roars and cries for victory.

From the center of the field, Jensen can spot a few fans wrapped in the Chilean flag, waving and jumping up and down, excited for the second half to begin. They have a lead and they need to hold it.

For the second half, sides are switched. Claudio reminds Jensen and Alexis to aim higher if they can, away from Howard’s legs. Positions are taken; the field is fresh and it’s drizzling. They’ll play in the rain with no problem. Football must be played under any circumstance. Jensen isn’t sure the Americans understand that. They look uncomfortable in their places, wiping at their faces repeatedly, even though it’s hardly more than a mist. A glance at the wall across the field shows that he’s switched headbands and taken his ponytail out. He smiles when their eyes meet, and Jensen half expects him to wave, but he doesn’t. The wall nods and claps, cheering his teammates on in the final seconds before the ball is placed in the center.

“Clean game,” the ref says, placing the ball down.

Yeah, sure, whatever.

The whistle blows.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> congrats Germany! i got updates on my phone while sneaking glances at work. XD
> 
> i'm watching the recaps now and omg, argentina got so close so many times. too many misses. auuuugh i can't believe it's all over. until 2018 and who knows what will happen then? 
> 
> welp, here's a chapter for you! enjoy! :D

Football has no off-season. Players are constantly moving around, playing different tournaments, training, going to qualifiers, visiting teams, being traded, and above all—looking forward to the Cup. Qualifying games for this Cup started in 2011, and La Roja played eighteen games until it was decided that they would be one of thirty-two at the Cup.

This is everything.

Jensen bolts at the sound of the whistle, sweeping across the field for Alexis, constantly mindful of the players around him. Halfway down the field, Jensen sprints forward, allowing his body to use a burst of renewed energy, stretching his legs and feeling the air pump in and out of his lungs. Get to the goal. Get to the fucking goal. Aim away from the legs.

Open to receive a pass, Jensen dodges the wall. Left. Right. Left. Right. Faster now. Left. Right. Left. Eugenio and Jean are behind him, on his wings, keeping the Americans distracted and muscling them off course. Alexis passes; Jensen extends his right leg. Seconds count. Get to the goal. From here, he has to strike within seconds of receiving, with a harder kick so that the ball lifts, but not too hard so that it’ll go over the bar. Accuracy. Speed. Left. Right. Left. Right. He shortens his steps, raises his arms, and feels the wall crashing towards him, his feet and frame pounding against the grass. You’re too heavy, Jensen wants to shout, I can feel you from a mile away.

I can feel you.

Jensen positions his foot, raises his leg, and makes three hundred decisions about the angle of the ball…

And out from under him, the ball is kicked with a dive.

Stolen.

The wall drives the ball away from Jensen, shooting it into the feet of one of his teammates, ripping away the opportunity Jensen had. Americans in the stadium go crazy.

Not a word. Not a look. The wall and Jensen play on; the wall goes to block Jean and Alexis from getting to Jensen while Jensen scrambles to race down the field, into open territory. A minute later, the ball is throttled to the far opposite side of the field, frustratingly towards Claudio. Gary and an American jump for it, but there’s their weakness—the American is six inches taller and dominates the air. Everything changes and the entire team must refocus from offense to defense. Lingering on whatever happened two seconds ago is how games are lost; every luchador must continuously adapt to what happens. Alexis signals for Jensen to hold back, there are too many players crowded over by Claudio, and they need to be ready for the game to change again. Isla and Jara soar in, led by Gary, who creates a tight defense in front of Claudio. Despite all of this, a scuffle breaks out and even the ref is having a difficult time keeping track of everyone. Dempsey gets control from the left, raises his leg, and aims.

No. No. No. No.

The ball lands directly into Claudio’s gloves.

Holy fuck.

“Pa’tras!” Alexis cries out, waving Jensen back. Claudio is going to aim to Jensen so he can get it to Alexis. “Andasen pa’tras!” The rest of La Roja begins to shift, breaking fast towards the American goal. The problem, of course, is that the Americans also move. The ball is launched and Jensen can spot exactly where it’s going to land. And he knows that the wall is going to try to muscle him out of the pass because he can feel the footsteps this time.

I can feel you.

Midair, Jensen twists his frame. He’s more flexible than the wall has seen. Everything in that shady hotel? That was _nothing_. The wall’s jersey grazes Jensen’s back. Jensen jumped high enough and contorted his body away from the path the wall was on, causing the wall to miss him and slip on the field from the rain. Jensen head butts the ball, shouting from the force of contact, driving it into Alexis’ direction. Within seconds, Jensen is back on his feet, he doesn’t look back at the wall. Running on the right side of the field, hustling to provide support for Alexis, Jensen searches for pockets. Eugenio is here, so is Jean. They can make a sweep for it, but they have to be quick. Strike. Strike. Strike!

Alexis aims.

The ball is deflected by Howard, with the use of his legs. Claudio’s words echo in Jensen’s head.

Fuck.

Twenty minutes into the second half and Jensen wants this to be over. Football is more important than a date with someone who can’t drive a Vespa without having six near-death experiences. Howard has control over the ball and chooses to kick it towards center-field, to Dempsey, who loses control of it to Gary. Another scuffle to the left and the ref blows the whistle. A foul isn’t called but the Americans get a throw-in. From the sidelines, Dempsey holds the balls in his hands and looks out towards the field. Every luchador is trying to gauge his movements. Jensen bounces in his place, keeping his body moving, feeling the burn of his muscles. Dempsey tosses the ball towards a midder, and it looks good. Fuck. Shouts from Silva and Jara force Jensen to swing up the left. He can’t stay back and let defense do all the work.

An American midder kicks the ball wide to the right, which one of their strikers hits with their chest. Snap. Snap. Snap. The balón ricochets from player to player.  

It happens so fast, Jensen doesn’t have time to call out to Gary to watch out for his left.

“¡GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLL!”

American strikers and midders fall over each other in celebration.

“¡GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLL PARA LOS ESTADOS UNIDOS!”

Everyone who is within decent range jogs over to Claudio. He shakes his head and apologizes to La Roja. Isla pats Claudio’s back. Who cares if the Americans are cheering? “Dejalos,” Jensen adds with a grumble, “por ahora.”

This has to end.

 

From across the field, the wall locks eyes with Jensen. Unlike before, the wall waves, the cheekiest, smuggest smile on his stupid face.

Webon.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kicking out another chapter before i head to work. i hope to have this done tomorrow, so we can wrap this up and get back to House, etc. :D 
> 
> thanks for sticking with me! <3
> 
> notes:
> 
> -y que me lo pasa al derecho = pass it to me on the right

Teams cannot be carried by a single player. The Brasilians try it every Cup and expect to win simply because they are Brasil. Argentina has that same issue, so does Portgual. There are reasons Ronaldo, Messi, and Neymar are considered some of the greatest players in the world—they have earned their titles and awards. But football is a sport that demands the entire team work together consistently. The best goalie can’t carry an entire game if his defense is shit. Likewise, the best striker can’t do anything if the support isn’t there from his midders. Gloriously missed opportunities belong to those teams who rely on one or two players instead of making full use of the eleven on the field.

For every weakness that La Roja has, one of their strengths is that they play juntos—together—as a single, determined unit. Alexis and Claudio are the players with the most experience, playing for Barcelona when they’re not qualifying for the Cup, but they don’t carry La Roja. Alexis couldn’t strike unless he had the assists and aid from everyone else, just like Claudio is never given too many opportunities to save a ball from their opponent.

This is what the American team lacks. Their goalie might be exceptional, and okay, maybe _one_ of their defenders is okay, but their strikers and midders lack cohesion. Signals from across the field get lost, misinterpreted, or ignored in favor of doing something else. Whenever a striker does break through La Roja’s defensive line, the ball gets scattered, no one knows what to do, and La Roja is able to sweep the ball back into their control. With ten minutes left, the Americans are desperate and it shows in their formations. Four fouls are called in two minutes—two against Chile and two against the EEUU. Gary says something to Isla, who passes it onto Jensen as they stand in position for the Americans to throw in.

“Did you want to take care of the American yourself?” Isla asks, grounding himself on the field.

Jensen never takes his eyes off the ball, even if it’s on the sidelines. “Yes. I’ll have a better chance. Tell Gary gracias y que me lo pasa al derecho.” He’d rather take care of the wall himself. There’s no need to hurt the gringo. Just knock him back for his cheap ass shot from before. And the fuckery that was that stupid wave.

Thrown in, the ball bounces off one of the American midders’ foreheads, and it looks like it’s going to to stay on trajectory towards the goal. Gary slips in, forcing an open spot in between two strikers, and head butts the ball out of danger. Another signal is given and the message has been passed from Isla to Gary. Claudio sees this; he trusts the ball to Gary, who kicks it right, towards Jensen in midfield.

Football requires stamina that other sports don’t. There aren’t more than ten seconds where Jensen is still. Racing towards ninety minutes, with five to go, he is starting to feel the pressure of fatigue. No one wants this to go to overtime, and fuck everything if they reach penalties. After ninety minutes, even the best of bodies start to wear down. Cramps are painful as fuck. Everyone wants this to be over and everyone wants to win. But Jensen wants it more. He runs in long strides, keeping his footing light, aiming directly for the wall. In Latin America, Jensen is considered one of the most intimidating strikers, not just for his size. If his footwork can’t knock a player off his track, he has techniques that will.

Eyes locked, the wall’s brow is furrowed. He dodges right, expecting Jensen to change at the last second. Jensen doesn’t. He pushes directly past the wall, kicking the ball in between the wall’s legs, continuing to run with it as it glides over the grass without interception. Jensen gets close on purpose. It always throws defenders off. They expect him to dodge but he sticks to them like honey, unafraid of their jerseys touching or their shoulders grazing. On La Roja’s side, Jensen can hear the audience stomp their feet, chanting, waiting, willing the ball to be in their favor.

A scramble of players meets Jensen towards the goal. Not a problem. He stops the ball with his right foot, halting at the last second, and passes it backwards. For a second it seems like he’s given up the ball. But he whoops in joy when the play is successfully done—Alexis swings up from behind at the last second.

Surprise, fuckers.

Alexis catapults forward, smaller than anyone over here, and zig zags as he needs to. In seconds, he aims, raises his leg to kick, and…

He passes to Jensen, hiding on the right.

Surprise, motherfuckers.

The ball hits Jensen’s left leg at the exact angle and speed that he needs it to. Away from the legs. Three minutes left. His heart hammering, Jensen pushes the ball with every delicate bone and muscle in his foot, shouting from the force of it. Away from the legs. Howard jumps left. The net bulges on the right.

“¡GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!”

Jensen jumps up, screaming along with the announcer, arms raised. Within seconds, La Roja is crushing him, hugging and slapping his back, smothering him in victory.

“¡FUE UN GOLAAAAAAAAAZOOOOOOOO! ¡GOOOOLLLL GOOOOOLLLL GOOOOOOLLL PARA CHILE! ¡DOS A UNO!”

Don’t look.

Don’t fucking look.

Because if he looks, the wall is probably going to be crying or lying on the field or fighting with his teammates or doing any number of things in grief and frustration. Jensen doesn’t want to see that.

But Jensen’s eyes do what they want.

They meet with the wall’s, yards away, direct and focused nonetheless.

 

Cameras all around them capture the moment.

The wall gives Jensen a thumbs up, shakes his head, and turns away, shoulders a little more hunched than before.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter! translations at the end. :D

In three minutes, anything can happen in futbol.

Games can turn, lives can change, and the destinies of twenty-three can alter beyond the dreams of the streets they grew up on. No one gives up before the whistle blows. Every luchador plays his hardest until then and only then. La Roja stays together. Claudio shouts for everyone to remain calm when the Americans manage to bring the ball closer towards him. Easy. Don't get so worked up. Por esto hemos trabajado, cabros.

He never will move back to the States, even if it's for more money. Santiago has been home to him since he was eight years old. Buying a house in Las Condes solidified that fact. And although he isn't completely moved in just yet, Jensen is looking forward to spending time in a space that is uniquely his. Colo-Colo will take care of him for as long as he is able and willing to play futbol. A trade to Spain would be glorious, but Jensen is fine where he's at now. He has worked hard from the days on the junior league, when his Tio Lucho would watch from the sidelines, cheering and pointing him out to other parents--"El es mio."

The whole point of the Cup is to bring together the entire world for the appreciation of the beautiful game. More than two hundred countries get an opportunity to display their best players. Jensen is one of millions who have dreamed of being on this field.

Hanging back in midfield, Jensen and Alexis allow defense and the midders to do their stuff. If another opportunity opens for them to score--even in the final ten seconds--they'll take it. That's how the best strikers play: hard and unforgiving until the very last. However, strikers do not carry a team. No one position or player can take an entire team to victory, and that is a lesson not so easily learned. A team is only as good as they are willing to play with each other. Down to the final minutes, every luchador's actions count. Hurtling towards the final three minutes of overtime, everyone is starting to feel the burn of the game. Muscles threaten to cramp, lungs are pump with accelerated forced, and hearts are about to break.

The World Cup is meant to break your heart.

From here on out, the teams advancing out of their groups will be eligible for elimination. Chile rarely passes that first elimination game. But this is what they have been training for, playing for, dreaming of: this field, this grass, this ball.

What Jensen didn't dream of, was a blue headband and another white jersey.

Thirty seconds remain for the referee to blow the whistle and the announcers to wrap up their coverage. This is the beginning of the end. Desperation is thick on the field from both teams. The Americans are desperate to tie and go for overtime and La Roja wants this to end as it is, in their favor. An American striker tries, at the very last second, to push past Gary and trick Claudio with a sharp dodge to the right. From the center, Isla spots the advance and ricochets over, pushing past the American line. Throwing everything into the move, he dives, sliding on the grass with his right foot extended, and attempts to knock the ball off course.

Every single person in the stadium holds their breath.

The ball ricochets off of the left goal post.

Louder than the cheering, more intense than the beat of his heart, Jensen hears the whistle blow. Fin. From the hundreds of speakers above and around him, an announcer's voice booms with the declarations Jensen has wanted to hear from the first minute.

"Ya se terminó el juego! Gana Chile! Dos a uno!"

Sprinting, towards Claudio, Jensen collides with La Roja. Everyone is fierce with their affection, embracing, patting, clapping, and shouting. They become a wave of jerseys, everyone congratulating Isla for the critical dodge. Jumping up and down, Johnny wraps his arms around Jensen and Alexis' shoulders and cries out for a victory call. In a mass of energy and cheers, their assistants join them; Jorge and Claudio shake hands, and Alexis stands in the center of the huddle. Every luchador has light in their eyes. They are one advantageous step closer to the Cup. Winning this game puts them out of the threat the Netherlands posed. La Roja will go up against the Germans.

Side by side, not an inch in between any player, the complete team gathers--assistants, coaches, trainers, and luchadores. Hands in the air, Alexis shouts, eublient and joyful, "CHI CHI CHI! LE LE LE!"

The rest of the team thunders back their reply: "VIVA CHILE MIERDA!"

Greatness is underestimated. Stacy's mom has got it going on.

There is no cover that could replace or come close to the original. Jensen will listen to it at the next game and the game after that, and even the game after that. One day, La Roja is going to meet its match and humility will be the lesson of the day. But right here, right now, at the World Cup, losing is the furthest thing from Jensen's mind. Every win is important, even if there is no chance of being disqualified. Not playing the Netherlands increases their chances of advancing into the quarter finals--every Chilean's dream. This could be their Cup. This could be their year.

Jensen basks in victory until he looks over his shoulder.

Headband off, the wall wrings it between his hands.

Eliminations begin tomorrow. The groups that advanced from the first three games will now face serious consequences to weak plays, poor attitude, and lack of concentration. The next stage of the Cup will have games won and lost by one point, often going into overtime and relying on fouls and penalty kicks to determine the winner. Once a team is eliminated from the Cup, they go home. There's no reason to stick around. Besides, the host country is only responsible for the team's expenses while they qualify, not after.

Additionally, there is no such thing as off-season for futbol. If they don't win the Cup, members of La Roja are given two weeks off before rejoining their original leagues. A lot can happen in those two weeks of supposed rest. As scouts and reps watch each World Cup game, in the next few weeks players are traded, careers are made or broken, and the world of futbol continues to move on. Training, games, and preparation for more qualifying rounds for the next World Cup keep players constantly occupied, flying from country to country to play. All of this, plus marketing and merchandising events, promotional obligations, and interviews for magazines and television, the life of a professional luchador is not a walk in the park. Jensen has plans to come back to the Cup four years from now, no matter what the outcome here in Brasil. He will work every bit as hard as the luchadores around him--even if they lose.

Even if they wear blue headbands that make them look like a douchebag.

Crossing the field, Jensen is the first of La Roja to extend a hand out to a player from the United States team. In his other hand, he carries something else. It is not a kiss in the middle of an art museum garden. It is not a promise and it is not any more than Jensen is willing to give.

It ain't no scooter ride through downtown Rio de Janeiro.

"Jugaste bien."

Hazel eyes blink. "Huh?"

Their hands clasp together in a standard after game handshake. Jensen can feel himself in three places at once--on the field, running yard after yard, driving a shot wide open with the angle just right; on his back, driving his hips up, meeting the downward drives and dives of hips that belong to the cheekiest smile, framed by dimples; and here, handing the wall the jersey off of his back, a rare, cool gust of air passing through them.

All over the world, people are watching this moment between them.

In Rio de Janeiro, in that hotel, that lady is shaking her head again. What a waste.

When Jensen leaves the stadium, he has more than one reason to play Stacy's Mom. Millions may have been watching their every movement, announcers lauding the show of sportsmanship signified by handing over a jersey, but there's one piece of that no one else saw.

Before he broke away from La Roja, Jensen asked one of the assistants for a scrap of paper and a pen. With so much glorious chaos around them, no one noticed Jensen scribbling.

He figured, why not?

Inside his jersey, Jensen folded the scrap of paper with his number on it.

Greatness is always under appreciated. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Por esto hemos..." = This is what we've worked for.
> 
> "El es mio." = He's mine. 
> 
> "Jugaste bien." = You played well.
> 
> FINALLY. So sorry this took so long, but at least I've finished it. Phew! A month and a half after the world up ended but oh well, better late than never. <3
> 
> thank you for hanging in there and reading this. i've never written anything centered around any kind of sport, so this was an interesting challenge. plus, we had wonderful art from Kami, which I adore. :D 
> 
> thanks again! now onto more projects. XD

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, my apologies to both teams. I'm sorry (not sorry). XD The tags will change when I add in smut, but for now, here are the first handful of chapters! 
> 
> Thank you to Ela for the request on Tumblr that got my ass in gear and this fic written. :D Of course, I thought, ehh this can be a 2k fic. I'm at 6k and only halfway through. Womp womp. 
> 
> Okay, I'm going to bog you down with notes. Bear with me. I decided to stick with what I know and go for putting Jensen on the Chilean team. I give myself away here a little bit--I am Chilean-American and of course, I have to root for Chile. We are the underdogs! 
> 
> If you don't know anything about soccer or the Cup, I think you can still read this without getting too confused. If you know a little something about soccer or the Cup, good! If you're like me and a fan of the Cup but not a diehard soccer fan, hooray! If you're a diehard soccer fan, sorry. XD If you have questions, let me know. I'm always up for talking about soccer.
> 
> AO3 won't let me put footnotes into fic, so you're stuck with my Spanish without translations in the fic. A few things: EEUU = USA, que les paso = what happened to them, webones = jerk/asshole/etc. along those lines. 
> 
> Also, we all know that The Cup of Life by Ricky Martin is the best Cup anthem, so yeah. Shakira comes in a close second. 
> 
> Thank you to M for bouncing around titles with me. XD
> 
> Okay. Go read! (And cheer for us in tomorrow's game! We're up against Brazil. Eek!)


End file.
